July 18, 1995
Dear Margaret,
Hi there! You just popped into my mind! Whenever that happens – you know – you’re thinking about something and out of the blue a memory of a person comes up – I write that person a letter or note. I suddenly remembered the day I came by to tell you I was pregnant with Alex. Then I thought – gee – my summer has been crazy, I wonder how Margaret’s has been?
I was just getting ready to go outside to do some work on the greenhouse and was checking out a how-to book in case I get adventurous and decide to finish the shingling on my own. In the back of the book was a letter, which clearly was never finished nor was it ever mailed, to a friend named Margaret.
I have no idea who Margaret is.
Seriously.
I have no memory of her. Apparently we were close enough that I paid a special visit to her to tell her about my second pregnancy. And we were friendly enough that I took time to write a letter to her (never mind that I didn’t send it, I had two little kids, life was busy, don’t judge me).
The letter goes on to talk about what was going on in my life that summer – the trip we were hoping to take, the family party that was planned, the Australian relatives who were visiting.
I’ve been sitting here for a while now, trying to think back, trying to remember who the heck is Margaret?
I wonder if Margaret has a half-written letter to me she has stumbled across and is thinking to herself, “Cathy? Who the heck is Cathy?”
I know my memory is not the greatest, but how could I completely forget someone that was important enough for me to write a letter to; even in 1995 letter writing was becoming a thing of the past. This is probably going to drive me nuts. I’ll be thinking about it in the back of my mind until suddenly it will come to me. “Holy cow! That’s who Margaret is! How could I have forgotten Margaret?”
At least, that’s my hope.
Now I’m wondering how many other people I have forgotten? How many others have come and gone from my life and from my memory?
Yesterday, Alex and I were in Canadian Tire picking up paint for the greenhouse. The woman at the till asks if I have a Canadian Tire Cash card – the card replacing Canadian Tire money. I say no and she comes back with, “Your son has one. If you know his phone number, you can give him the points.” It is clear that she isn’t referring to the son standing beside me.
I have no idea who this woman is. I only recognize her from shopping in the store, which I’ve never done with my older son. My middle-aged brain is thinking as quickly as it can and is failing me miserably. I can’t make a single connection that explains who she is or how she knows I am Robert’s mother. I could have just given her the requested phone number and walked away, but my curiosity is piqued and I’m willing to sacrifice a little pride for an answer.
“Your memory is better than mine,” I say, “I have no idea who you are.”
She just laughs and tells me our kids went to school together and that she used to live just a few miles up the highway from us. I guess I made a bigger impact than she did or her memory is just better than mine. Clearly her memory is better than mine.
Twice in two days I am given reminders that 1) my memory stinks and 2) people come and go. Some make a lasting impact, others – well – not so much. I think that’s ok, I think that’s the way it is supposed to be.
People come and go for all sorts of reasons. I’m guessing from the letter that Margaret moved away. It happens. I’ve had some friendships fade because I was the one who moved. I’ve lost friends because of a falling out that couldn’t be healed and I’ve learned lessons from the lost friendships.
I’ve also had friends that are ‘long haul’ friends. People I met in my childhood or teen years that are just as dear to me today. Some of them are people I don’t see nearly as often as I would like, but when we do happen to get together it’s like no time at all has passed. I’ve learned lessons from the ‘kept’ friendships too.
So to the old friends who are gone, to the old friends who are still here, and to the new friends met just last night…thanks for spending time with me. Thanks for making me think about myself and how I could be and do better. Thanks for challenging me to grow. Thanks for the reminder that we’re in this together, we are not alone. Thanks for sharing life with me.
And Margaret, if you ever read this, for the love of God, remind me who you are!
